


composed of broken bones or demon limbs

by emptyswimmingpools



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Adam Parrish's Crippling Ambition, Angst, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Developing Relationship, Gen, Kissing, M/M, Minor Violence, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-03
Updated: 2016-11-03
Packaged: 2018-08-28 21:29:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8463589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emptyswimmingpools/pseuds/emptyswimmingpools
Summary: He’s loud. You’re quiet. You could never get along, destined to argue for all eternity.
And it doesn’t matter if you feel yourself easing up around him because—even though he’s obnoxious—he’s so fucking easy to be around; your dynamic is a routine you’ve practised to perfection, dancing smoothly around each other’s sharp edges. It doesn’t matter if you start smiling a little more in his presence because of his crude jokes and cynical humour, seemingly always stifling a laugh.
It doesn’t matter, because he’s not your friend.





	

_Your built composure's wearing thin_  
_And all your walls are caving in_  
_[[x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xqWYwYdw8SY)]_

* * *

 

 

 

You see him in Latin and, sometimes, in the halls with Gansey. You don’t talk to him. You barely know him, but you know enough to decide that he intimidates you. A lot.

(But there’s something about him you can’t quite put your finger on. Maybe it’s better if you don’t know.)

.

You don’t like him when you first meet him. Gansey introduces you shortly after you befriend him, and his face was twisted into a practised look of distaste throughout the entire interaction. Ronan Lynch is a concoction of vice and danger, a sharp edge of glass you might cut yourself on if you touch it. Gansey claims he was different a while ago—happier—and while you believe that, it’s hard to sympathise with someone whose language is made of cutting remarks and swear words.

You tolerate him, though. For Gansey’s sake. He bickers with you like he needs it just as much as his next breath, and while it’s frustrating, it’s perhaps equally intriguing.

.

The first time you meet up with him and Gansey with purple-blue bruises littered along your skin, he narrows his eyes confusedly, like he’s trying to figure out where you got them from. You hope he doesn’t find out; he might treat you differently if he does. You want to be treated like a _person_ because that’s what you are—not a fragile object that might shatter if not handled with caution.

_Did you fall over?_

But for once in his life, Ronan doesn’t say a word about it. He stays silent as Gansey looks towards you with a frown and a certain sadness in his eyes—it’s filled with concern—and you make a point of ignoring his gaze.

_Did you get in a fight?_

Gansey interrupts the awkward silence by babbling on about everything and nothing. Something about ley lines or Welsh kings. You’re too distracted by the way Ronan is staring at you with a strange sort of wonder that you can’t quite pinpoint to concentrate on what he’s actually saying, so you just stare at the movements of his mouth and nod in agreement at times you think are vaguely appropriate.

_How did you get those bruises, Parrish?_

.

Gansey tells you what happened to Ronan around a year ago. His dad, his suicide attempt, his brothers.

He doesn’t go into too much detail (“that wouldn’t be fair to him,” Gansey’d reasoned), but it’s enough to make your gut twist unpleasantly and your heart stutter. Guilt floods through your veins and you think you feel sorry for him.

You’re not sure, though. The only thing you really know how to feel sorry for is _existing_. (“You’re an inconvenience,” Robert Parrish would yell, with his hand raised for battle and a sharpness ingrained in his voice that sends chills down your spine.

You believe him.)

.

You throw yourself into your work to distract yourself from the pain. Ironic, really, because working three jobs is partly the cause of said pain.

Sometimes—oddly enough—it helps, sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes the aching in your head and the shadow over your soul is too much to drown out: it’s static noise in the background of everyday tasks that puts you off, teases you and steals your breath; sometimes you feel like your throat has flared up and your lungs are too big to fit your chest and _God_ , it _hurts_. You don’t know how to stop it, but maybe that’s okay. Maybe you were just born star-crossed, maybe it’s fate.

You deserve it, anyway. That’s what you’ve always been told.

.

Sometimes, it feels like you’re drowning. You’re gasping for breath, pale, as others walk around under the sun’s rays, unaffected. You’re trapped underwater and there’s no escape from this sea of self-hatred you’ve cried yourself over the years; it’s far too high to go upwards; you never did have swimming lessons, anyway.

.

One night, after the lilac sunset has dissolved into its usual darkness, you realise you’ve been at Monmouth Manufacturing with Gansey and Ronan for too long and you should make a timely exit home.

Ronan stares sourly at you, reluctant to let you return to— to _him_. He retrieves his car keys from the back pocket of his black jeans and jiggles them around in his hands for a bit, then says, “I’ll drive you, Parrish.” He doesn’t say it like an offer, but rather a demand. All you can do in response is nod slowly in acknowledgement and follow the tall boy as he bounds down the stairs.

It’s chilly in his car, but you don’t care; there are more important things on your mind.

Ronan sighs, squeezes his eyes shut for a moment or two carelessly. He suggests, unusually quietly for someone as loud as him, “You know, I could teach you how to fight if you wanted.”

_Jesus Christ._

“Excuse me?”

Ronan snorts. “As if I wasn’t going to fucking figure out what was going on. It’s not hard to piece together.”

You run a hand through your hair, exasperated. You don’t understand why someone like Ronan Lynch would care this much about you. You’re just _trailer trash_ , the dirt underneath his fucking feet. He has more money than you can fathom and an unfortunate knack to be an asshole. “I don’t need your damn wit, Lynch.” You inhale a ragged breath, desperately trying to keep yourself composed. Somehow, you’re almost entirely sure Ronan can see through you, but you keep up the act regardless. Your pride won’t let you drop it, the stubborn thing. “I can’t do that. Fight, I mean. I can’t.”

He looks at you curiously, reading you like you read textbooks: trying to understand every detail. “Why not?” he asks.

“Fighting fire with fire is illogical and hypocritical,” you tell him, as monotonous as you can muster. What you really mean is: _I could try all I like, but he’s had years of practise at this._

If Ronan feels guilty for bringing it up, you don’t notice it in his face. You just stare helplessly at his unchanging, stoic expression as he focuses on the road, and wonder what’s going through his mind.

“Fine,” he says bitterly, surrendering. Neither of you say anything for the rest of the drive and when you get out of the car you slam the door pettily just to punctuate how pissed off you are.

You don’t even make it to your bedroom before you get hit.

.

He hands you notes the day after you missed school—some Latin grammar you’ve desperately been trying to make sense of. You almost don’t believe it—Ronan Lynch, actually taking the time to scrawl out notes for you, Adam Parrish—for a moment, but you don’t dwell on it. You’re grateful, and that’s enough.

You shoot him a half-smile and awkwardly thank him and he replies easily, “No problem, Parrish. But this is a one-time thing. I’m not your fucking scribe.” He walks away, then.

There’s a few drawings in the margins: flowers and birds and a particularly detailed but humiliating one of Gansey. The writing itself is detailed; messy albeit readable. They’re good notes, you muse. Weirdly good.

It’s still confusing, though, that Ronan would want to do something nice for once. You’d always thought he was made of only snarls and thorns and recklessness.

You’ve only ever seen him properly be nice to Gansey before. You doubt he’ll ever warm up to you, really, but you put the notes into your bag and save them for later regardless.

.

Ronan offers to teach you how to fight again a month later. "It's really no trouble," he insists, and if it was anyone else you'd call bullshit, but you know Ronan doesn't lie.

You glare at him pointedly, and reply bluntly: "I said no, Lynch."

He notes the venom in your voice and drops the topic.

.

He’s loud. You’re quiet. You could never get along, destined to argue for all eternity.

And it doesn’t matter if you feel yourself easing up around him because—even though he’s obnoxious—he’s so fucking _easy_ to be around; your dynamic is a routine you’ve practised to perfection, dancing smoothly around each other’s sharp edges. It doesn’t matter if you start smiling a little more in his presence because of his crude jokes and cynical humour, seemingly always stifling a laugh.

It doesn’t matter, because he’s not your _friend_. You argue too much for that: he’s explosive, quick to anger, and you think you might be, too.

You’ve got an awful lot to be angry about, after all. It gradually builds up within you, bubbling and fizzing and waiting to explode, burning with every bruise splattered on your arms and chest.

You wonder if you’ll ever stop being angry, sometimes. There’s a part of you that whispers lowly, faintly, _Yes._

A much larger part of you says otherwise. That voice in your head, you realise, sounds an awful lot like your father.

.

Everything becomes so much more complicated when Blue Sargent enters the picture, and you don’t particularly know what to make of it. Neither does Ronan, ever the bitter one of the group, though Gansey seems to want to earn her liking.

You think she’s interesting. Pretty. Fun. She understands you in terms of finance and it’s nice to have someone like that in your life.

You hope you don’t fuck it up too badly. You know you will to an extent, because you’re Adam Parrish. Perhaps that’s a gene you got from your dad. Or maybe you just developed it yourself.

Everything you touch is destined for damage. You wonder if you should warn Blue of that—let her know what she’s getting herself into.

You sigh, run a hand through your hair, look out the window.

Outside, the sun is setting and the wind is blowing gently. It looks like something an artist might paint: perfectly picturesque, all warm colours blending in nicely with each other. You wish you could belong somewhere like orange belongs in a sunset. You wish you didn’t feel so stuck all the time. You wish you were less… you.

You ignore that thought and open your Latin textbook desperately, hastily, as if it was some sort of personality cure.

.

Ronan saves you from your dad, and you're more confused than anything else.

Perhaps there's a lot more to him than meets the eye. Perhaps he really does care about you.

You've gone deaf in one of your ears—your left—though. It's weird, and it likely always will be. Sometimes you feel dizzy or disorientated because of it, and you worry how much it'll effect your daily life.

It hurts to know that this is lifelong, that you're stuck with a permanent reminder of what your dad did to you. Bruises fade, slowly from purple to tan again. They come and go like spilt water evaporates from a carpet. This won't. There's no fairytale ending, no sugar-coated way to tell the story.

You decided to press charges, though, and you don't know what you're going to do now. Ronan is free and you think you trust him a bit more now, but you can't just stay at Monmouth with him and Gansey; that's letting them win.

Someone sneaks some brochures for nearby rooms to rent into your bag after that. You think it was Ronan, because there was a cartoonised dick drawn on one of them and you doubt Gansey or Blue would bother being that juvenile.

.

Ronan helps you move into the small room above St Agnes church. “It’s fucking tiny, man. Cold as shit, too,” he complains, box of your stuff in his arms. You roll your eyes, agree, brush it off.

He’s right, and you know it, but you don’t pay any mind. It’s shit but it’s _yours_. You’re your own person, not controlled by the crippling fear of abuse any longer. It’s strange to think about. Strange, albeit nice.

You think you might be a bit of a masochist, because in a weird way, you sort of miss home. It’s horrible, yes, but it’s familiar and you were there on _your_ terms and not Gansey’s or Ronan’s. You crave control and you don’t know how to stop that desire from burning deep inside you, setting your veins alight.

.

The rent for St Agnes gets knocked down conveniently as the tuition price for Aglionby goes up. Immediately, your first thought is: _Gansey—he’s pitying me._

It doesn’t register in your mind that it might be someone else. Someone like Ronan, who doesn’t usually do nice things for other people, who tends to keep his feelings to himself.

.

_It was a mistake_ , is what you first think about your sacrifice to Cabeswater. (Having doubts is what you do best. You’re ambitious, yes, but worried you won’t be _the best_.) Your second, more finalised thought is: _Maybe now I belong somewhere._

Cabeswater likes you. You chose it; chose to play hero and step in and let it be your hands, your eyes.

You don't understand it all that much, really, but you reckon you want to know more.

Ronan feels further away than before. More distant, always seeming to be out racing with Kavinsky. Drinking. Going to parties?

But you do know that Kavinsky—or K, as he likes to call himself—is the sort of person who might become the ruler of hell one day. He's manipulative and frustrating and you swear you get this sour sort of taste in your mouth every time you see his twisted face. You don't understand why Ronan puts up with him, let alone willingly hang out with the guy.

Somehow, it didn't surprise you too much when Ronan told you he could take things from his dreams. It explains the weird things in his room, the unexplainable nightmares and sleepless nights you never hear much about. It makes sense that someone like Ronan Lynch should a lot of power in his mind; it makes sense with the kind of mighty, unapproachable look to him. Almost holier-than-thou.

He's always been this sort of enigma. A puzzle you don't know how to solve. A book in a foreign language that you can't translate properly.

Ronan is dark, deceiving. He's intimidating in a way you can't put into words properly. But he’s a decent person—you know that now. He’s magic and he’s light and he’s a walking contradiction that’s messing with your head. He makes bad decisions but he’s good at heart and remains a loyal attribute to the group.

You realise that you truly don't know all that much about him.

You also realise that you want to know more about him.

.

You notice the way he looks at you.

Ronan Lynch has a longing in his eyes when you’re in the room, this lingering gaze that’s trained to divert the moment someone else notices. It’s always a private glance—a secret he keeps—like the way you sometimes catch Gansey looking at Blue. It’s like his eyes are boring into your soul, trying to dig deeper, know you inside and out. Its persistent, wide-eyed desperation captures a part of your heart and claims it as its own; the _thud_ s in your chest quicken, vague heat rising to your cheeks, the back of your neck.

Sometimes, once or twice before, you’ve caught yourself looking back. Trying to imagine a relationship with him; seeing if you’d fit well enough together, slotting like pieces of the same puzzle. Curiousity, you think it is—simply _wondering_ of what could be with Ronan, rather than actively _longing_ for it.

Perhaps you’re just kidding yourself, though.

.

You're the background: present, but hardly noticed, appreciated. Ronan is the focus of the picture; the person in the photo. Omnipresent, ever awed at. Sometimes, in conversation, you're overwhelmed by how _full_ and _much_ he is. He's passionate and the word 'half-hearted' ceases to exist in his personal dictionary. He's filled with emotion, and it's clear in every word that leaves his mouth. He doesn't lie; he isn't quiet. He's loud and scathing, someone who demands you pay attention to their every move. He _exists_. You can't help but feel feeble around Ronan Lynch.

You work hard, though. You know that. And yet, you still doubt whether you’re worthy of this— this _crush_ Ronan has on you. Being admired is different from most feelings people tend to get around you; it’s nice; refreshing.

Ronan could want anyone. Why _you_?

.

You find yourself spending more and more time with Ronan. That’s nice, you think, because you (still) like being in his presence. It’s mostly Cabeswater-Glendower-quest related things, but still. You trust him. You trust him more than you’d like to admit.

He’s eased up around you, now, and there are less snarls and more smiles (the real, bright ones, like when he’s around Matthew, as opposed to the ones that are all teeth and no real feeling). You like this side of him, this good-natured boy who you think is closer to the version of Ronan Gansey had described to you than any other defensive side you’ve seen.

He takes you to the Barns one day to show you something he’s been working on and you feel slightly overwhelmed with the amount of trust he has in you. (You hope he knows it’s mutual. He must, surely.) This is his _childhood home_ , likely the most special place on the earth to him. And he just. Invites you there. Like it’s not a big deal.

You get to know him more. Makes you a mixtape, some hand cream. He tells you he dreamt Matthew (“he’s one of mine”), his brother, and you’re amazed. The youngest Lynch brother has always been the most lively and for Ronan to have created such a kind soul is— wow.

You think highly of him. More so than you ever have before. You’ve noticed more of his little quirks and ticks, the manner in which he speaks, the posture he presents himself with. You notice his smile—the unguarded one—and the tones of his voice.

He dreams up a load of shit you ask him to in order to get rid of Greenmantle, and you think you’ve ruined everything. Ronan is silent for a while and you don’t talk about it, but things go back to normal shortly after.

(You still feel guilty, though.)

.

Robert Parrish visits you. His villainous smile cuts a wound deep within you without him even without a single touch, and you think he can see you bleeding from the frightened glint in your eyes. He speaks with a condescending sort of venom that poisons your thoughts.

Sometimes, you worry you’ll end up becoming like him. Like if you have a kid one day, you’re going to ruin their life like you ruined your parents’. You ruin everything. That’s what you’ve always been told.

And yet you still must prove to yourself that this abuse was real; you weren’t making it up, after all, and your father deserves punishment; you deserve justice. You’re controlling like that, always taking the logical approach. Double-checking for reassurance, like Ronan defending you wasn’t enough of a confirmation; like your deaf ear doesn’t present itself in such a way appropriate to be on your side.

And then the court case happens; your heartbeat speeds up. Your ribs feel a little too small for the size of your lungs and there’s an invisible weight on your chest that’s pressing down. But it’s all right, you know now: Ronan’s here, damn tie done right, Gansey stood loyally at his side. Everything feels just a bit better in this moment and you let out a breath easily this time, instead of a choked, forced gust of air.

When the case is over all you can think about is Ronan Lynch. It’s odd, you muse, that your mind should automatically drift towards him instead of frantically recalling the whole scenario, but you do nothing to divert to a different topic of thought. It’s even odder, though, that a boy filled with such undeniable _anger_ is key to help calm you down, cease your panic; but he’s not just anger, you think: Ronan is kind and quiet and belongs in a place of such beauty as the Barns. He’s dedicated and witty, and though he gets on your every last nerve sometimes, you can’t help but crave to be in his presence.

This feeling—the rush of heat to your cheeks; the sweaty palms; the racing of your mind—you have for Ronan when you think of him doesn’t quite belong in this world you’ve worked hard to build for yourself; it feels like a rush, something inexplicable yet… delicate. Something soft within all the damage you’ve become. It’s hard to fathom you could feel this way, having had the belief that you weren’t capable of love tattooed to the walls of your goddamn brain. You wish you could scrub it off, let yourself be free of your own, scolding self for once; redesign your brain in a way that fits suit.

But it still ghosts around when you’re with him, and you think you’d quite appreciate it if the universe just swallowed up your existence.

.

He kisses you on the night of truths in his childhood bedroom and all of a sudden everything seems to slot perfectly together, like this had been the missing piece in your life. You know you’re going to leave, though, and you fear of hurting him too badly, but you also fear that you’ve had a change of heart.

Your feelings for Ronan are serious, and you know his are too. You curse yourself for playing with him, messing around with his mind, juggling his heart; but buried deep down, you know you won’t leave permanently now—Ronan has given you a reason to come back, just like you thought you never would. It’s strange to have this realisation, because you’ve worked so hard to get the fuck out of Henrietta your whole life, but it’s a nice one at that.

There’s a doe by the porch when you kiss him again, this time less soft and with more want, and he responds with profuse eagerness that makes your knees sort of want to give way. You both eventually go back indoors and spread on the couch and you trace the delicate lines of Ronan’s tattoo; he shivers underneath your touch like a silent beg for more, so you flip him over and kiss him senseless for a while. You find that you love this version of Ronan, this wrecked boy wanting more, more, more; you love that you were the one who did this.

It hurts just how fast it’s snatched away.

.

Realistically, there’s a part of you who knows it’s irrational to take all the blame when you were entirely possessed by an evil demon. But over the years you’ve grown so used to feeling sorry for things that aren’t your fault and sometimes the lines blur and it’s hard to tell to what extent you caused the problem. Ronan reassures you it’s okay, kisses your hands like it’s nothing, looks you in the eye when he whispers words of comfort—but you find it hard to take it all in, and you can’t convince yourself it’s okay to touch him.

You keep thinking you’ll hurt him over and over again, the scene of your hands around his neck replaying in your dreams. You worry about Gansey, you think about his death, his resurrection. You try to work as hard as you always have, and you run yourself dry with exhaustion.

Gradually, though, it all gets better, found family with you every damn step of the way, just as they promised. They stand loyally by your side when you open your acceptance letter from Princeton, and when you read the words _full ride_ , you think you might pass out—the idea that you’ve actually _done it_ not quite hitting you yet. Blue grins and hugs you so tightly you can’t breathe; Gansey fist bumps you in that _Proud Dad_ manner of his; Opal grins and gives you a stick she found as a congratulatory present of sorts; Henry says, “Well done, Parrish!”

Ronan, though, is oddly quieter. The others look at you both and slither into the other room to give you some privacy, suggestive smiles on their faces. Ronan, of course, gives them the middle finger, but then he turns to look at you again and looks at you like you’ll slip away any second; you lace your fingers together in lieu of saying, “I would never.” And he holds onto your hands tightly, like you’re holding stars in your palms he’s trying to wish on through the interlocking of your fingers. He smiles at you, all teeth and warmth; your lips quirk up right back without really registering. His eyes are wild and blown and you think you love him.

He kisses you softly, his lips merely a ghost that haunt your own.

“ _Te amabo_ ,” you whisper. He rolls his eyes fondly.

The stars outside are shining brighter than ever when he replies.

**Author's Note:**

> most of this was written in early august. i found the document tonight and decided i'd finish it, because why the fuck not? i think i should also note that this is very unedited, and yes, i know the last chunk is extremely rushed, but i wanted it out of my system, you feel?
> 
> i've never written in 2nd person before, and adam is a pretty hard character to nail, so feedback would really be appreciated, if you're feeling nice!
> 
> the title is from _demon limbs_ by pvris. feel free to check out my tumblr, albertorosedne
> 
> also, i had to reupload this, like, three times. this fucking website, man


End file.
